Man at Work

by Elaine Fox

  Truman’s mother leaned forward and looked at him with renewed awareness, her manicured hands clutching the arms of the chair like a couple of gold-encrusted talons. “Are you saying you’ve met someone? Are you…” She looked around the apartment as if he might have stashed someone somewhere. “…dating someone around here?”

  He thought of Marcy, how eminently suitable she would be to his mother. How eminently unsuitable she was for him, for the person he wanted to be.

  “What if I were, Mother? What if I were dating the Hispanic single mother upstairs? Would you accept that? What if I were in love with her? What would you think of that?”

  The color rose so high in his mother’s cheeks Truman was worried he might be compromising her health.

  “And are you dating this Hispanic single mother upstairs?” She seemed to be holding her breath, but the lapels of her suit jacket trembled.

  He sighed. “No, Mother. I was just—”

  “No. Of course you aren’t.” She sat back in her chair, her color returning to normal. “And do you know why?”

  He just looked at her, fatigued by the whole conversation.

  “Because you and she have nothing in common, that’s why. You’d have nothing to talk about. And you wouldn’t understand each other at all. This is why people marry within their own circles. Shared backgrounds, shared histories, shared experiences and values.”

  “Shared billing in the Washington Social Register.”

  “There is nothing wrong with the Social Register, Truman Foster Fleming. Who taught you to be so superior?”

  Kenneth came back from the kitchen and went out the front door again.

  “How much stuff did you buy?” Truman asked, walking to the front window and peering through the dusty venetian blinds. Outside, a small knot of children had gathered to watch the limo and the uniformed man hauling a seemingly endless stream of groceries out of it.

  “Just enough to get you through a week or two.”

  Truman watched Kenneth pluck three more bags from the car and come back toward the apartment. “Maybe we should help him. How much more has he got?”

  His mother rose and walked toward the kitchen. A moment later Kenneth came back through the door.

  “How many more have you got, Kenneth?” Truman asked.

  “This is it, sir. I’m afraid I haven’t put much away, just the frozen things. I wasn’t sure where you would want things.”

  “Don’t bother putting any of it away, Kenneth,” Truman’s mother said, re-emerging from the kitchen. “We’ve got to get going and Truman needs the practice. He’s obviously eaten nothing but take-out since he moved.”

  Truman smiled cynically. As if he could afford take-out.

  “Truman, darling, I hate for things to be so contentious between us.” She came toward him and laid a hand on his cheek. “But you really must come to your senses soon. You’re my only son. I want to see you settled and happy.”

  “I am happy.” He kissed her cheek.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She kissed him back and turned to Kenneth. “No one could be happy here, could they, Kenneth?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Truman held his hand out to the chauffeur. “Good to see you, Kenneth. I hope you won’t mind keeping my whereabouts to yourself, at least for now.”

  They shook hands. “Of course, sir.”

  “And Mother, please tell Reginald the same thing. I just want to be left alone for a while.”

  His mother laughed and headed for the door. “Heavens, Truman, do you think I want anyone to know you’re here?”

  9

  Tuesday, October 22

  WORD-A-DAY!

  BONUS WORD

  PECKSNIFF: n., a contemptible, often hypocritical, individual; very like one who claims to be pursuing one end while actually pursuing another more advantageous to him or herself

  Marcy drove thoughtfully along the city streets, sure of her route, but questioning her motives.

  She wasn’t that afraid of Guido, she had to admit. If she was, she’d have immediately filed for a temporary restraining order against the guy. No, when it came to Guido she mostly had the feeling she might learn something from the thug. If he was keeping tabs on her, then she would, in a way, be keeping tabs on Planners. His actions could be an interesting gauge of how strong her case was.

  They weren’t scared yet, she knew, based on the benign nature of their goon’s little visit, but they would be once they got wind of her evidence. If Guido’s behavior escalated, then she’d know she was hitting a nerve, and she’d think more seriously about a restraining order.

  So why was she driving to Tru Fleming’s house at nine-thirty on a Tuesday night? To give him a piece of her mind about not calling her? No, she thought firmly, she was not that petty. She was going to treat this as casually as he did.

  And she was going to make sure it never happened again.

  So. The reason she was going to Truman Fleming’s house at nine-thirty on a Tuesday night was to ask him how much of a threat Guido really was, of course. Truman had known the man when they’d met in the diner. And Truman had known how to call him off. So maybe Truman was the man Marcy needed to have around to make sure everyone played fair. Fight thug with thug.

  Not that Truman was a thug, exactly. But he was big, strong, and seemed able to speak goon, when he wanted to.

  She pulled up in front of his apartment, across the street from Truman’s truck. At the end of the street a long shiny black car turned the corner with excessive caution, disappearing behind a decaying block of rowhouses. No doubt a pimpmobile, she thought. It had that sleek limo look, and who else but a pimp would have a limo in this neighborhood?

  Across the street a group of kids stood watching the car drive away. All eyes turned to her, however, when she got out of her car and pushed the doorlock and alarm buttons, causing the lights to flash and the alarm to give a little whoop of confirmation.

  “Down, boy. Stay,” she said to the backseat, as if a large Doberman were crouched inside.

  She strode up the cracked cement walkway and pulled open the door to the building. The smell of Mexican food wafted out of the apartment across from Truman’s. It was all she needed to realize she hadn’t eaten dinner, again.

  He answered the door immediately upon her knock, on his face a wary expression that immediately turned to surprise, then something else. Guilt, it looked like, which was exactly what he should be feeling.

  “Expecting someone else?” she asked, shifting her purse higher up on her shoulder.

  His hair was slightly wet and pushed back from his face, as if he’d just splashed himself with water and run his hands through his hair. With its length away from his face his great eyes and high cheekbones stood out even more.

  “No.” He shook his head, then dipped it once to the side. One lock of hair from that long-ago cut grazed his eyebrow. “Well, sort of. I thought you might be someone else, but you’re not. Which is good.” He stepped back with a smile. “Very good. Come on in.”

  She entered the apartment, looking around. Did he have someone here? Was that the reason for the odd expression?

  “I’m sorry to bother you. Again, I would have called, but…” She turned around in the center of the room as he closed the door.

  “No problem. I was just…ah…putting away some groceries.” He gestured vaguely with one hand to the side and that odd expression came back to his face.

  “Please, don’t let me interrupt,” she said coolly, wishing she could tell if he was happy to see her or not. “Where’s Folly?”

  “She’s in the bedroom. I didn’t want her to bother…” His voice trailed off and he looked around the room as if a bunch of people had just inexplicably disappeared. “Anyone.”

  Marcy opened her mouth to reply but he continued quickly.

  “That is, I didn’t want her getting into the food. The groceries.”

  She studied him warily. “Well, don’t let me stop you from put
ting them away.”

  “No, it’s all right, I think all the frozen stuff’s been unloaded and anything else can wait. Folly’s okay in the bedroom for now.” He moved toward her and touched her arm, motioning her to sit in the armchair. Marcy’s breath caught at the contact but she disguised it by nearly tripping over herself to sit in the chair.

  Truman sat on the couch. “I’m glad you came. Really glad.”

  Marcy inhaled slowly to get her pulse back to normal and was about to speak when she noticed the scent of perfume in the air. It seemed to be coming from the chair.

  She looked down at it suspiciously. He’d just had a woman here. That’s why he looked so odd. She felt herself flush furiously. Truman’s expression looked guilty. Mercy felt whatever hope she might have had that he’d have a good reason for not calling her shrink to a hard kernel of anger.

  “Can I get you something to drink? I’m pretty sure I probably have something this time,” he said, rubbing his hands together in front of him.

  She studied him just a second too long, in an attempt to make him squirm and keep talking, possibly revealing that he had, in fact, had a woman here. But he clammed up. None of her cheap prosecutorial tricks ever worked on him.

  “Sure, something to drink would be fine.” She sat forward to loosen the way her skirt had caught under her—showing entirely too much leg—but he misinterpreted her movement.

  “No, no! Don’t get up.” He practically leaped to his feet. “I’ll get it. Let me just, uh, see what I have. Hang tight there for a minute.”

  He held a palm out to her—a stay command—and walked across the room. Marcy watched him with narrowed eyes. After a second’s consideration, she rose and followed him into the kitchen.

  There, in that tiny room, Truman stood lost amidst a sea of grocery bags. They covered the counters, the floor, and two more sat in the sink. Even the little spider plant on the windowsill was crowded by what looked like an ice cream bag.

  “What did you do? Rob a bank?” she asked, staring incredulously at the abundance.

  He whirled, a definite blush staining his cheeks. “Unfortunately, these bags are not filled with money.”

  “The grocery store, then?” She put her hands on her hips. Not that it was any of her business, but this was just weird.

  “My, uh…” He held a hand out in the direction of the street and paused.

  Marcy wondered if he’d been planning to say his girlfriend just dropped it all off. Then she remembered the limo. Good God, did he have a prostitute here?

  Revulsion swept her.

  But no. She frowned. Not only did Truman not seem like the hooker type, he certainly had the looks to be able to find free sex whenever he wanted it. She was living proof of that. In any case, the food still didn’t make any sense. Hookers didn’t generally deliver. And the way she understood it, you didn’t have to go out of your way to impress a prostitute before…well, whatever.

  “Your…?” she prompted.

  “My, uh, delivery service,” he said, turning away from her to look in one of the bags in the sink.

  “You have a delivery service?” She looked around the kitchen. “Truman, you barely have any furniture. What are you doing with a delivery service?”

  “My…truck’s not running?” He looked at her hopefully.

  “I just parked right across the street from it. What, do you need it towed?”

  He shook his head, eyeing her oddly. “No, I can fix it. I just haven’t had a chance.”

  “How will you get to work in the morning?”

  “Oh, I’ll fix it before work.” He nodded confidently.

  “So, you can fix the car in a jiffy before work tomorrow, but you needed this”—she spread her arms wide to encompass the gargantuan horn of plenty before them—“tonight, and so badly that you called a delivery service?”

  He studied her a second, then donned an irked expression. “Hey, what’s with the third degree? Maybe you should have taken off your lawyer suit before going visiting.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I only have lawyer suits.”

  He laughed once. “Don’t I know it.” He surveyed the kitchen again, then poked a hand in a bag on the floor. A second later he emerged triumphant with a six-pack of root beer. “Ha! She always knows what I like.” He grinned, then squelched it when he caught the look on Marcy’s face.

  “She does?” Good lord, does he have a—what would you call it?—a sugar mama? “And how often do you use this delivery service?” Her voice dripped sarcasm.

  He peeled two cans from their plastic rings and handed one to Marcy, pointedly not answering her question.

  “I don’t think she brought any ice,” he said, popping the top on his. “Uptown Girl’s gonna have to drink her soda warm.”

  “Listen, Fleming, before you exhaust any more brain cells coming up with lame excuses for why women are bringing you food, one reason I came by tonight is to tell you not to expect a repeat of the other night anytime soon. I think we both know it was a mistake, an impulse, so let’s just get past it right now. We have work to do.”

  Truman just stared at her, seemingly frozen. “An impulse,” he repeated.

  She nodded once. “That’s right. We were both…curious about each other. But that’s all, right?”

  Truman looked down at the soda in his hand and chuckled dryly. “Yeah, right. I’d never done it with a lawyer before.”

  Marcy swallowed hard, surprised by the depth of hurt his words caused.

  Truman looked up at her and his expression softened. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Listen, if you’re upset because I didn’t call, I can explain.”

  “I don’t want you to explain, Truman,” she said too quickly, thinking, What are you saying? Of course you do! “The other night can’t be repeated for a whole bunch of reasons, not the least of which is that you’re a witness for my case now.”

  Truman took one step toward her and touched her arm. “What if I wasn’t?”

  She stepped back but wouldn’t look at him. She took a deep breath, wondering the same thing. What if he wasn’t her witness? Did she want a relationship with this man?

  “But you are,” she said firmly. “Besides, there’s another reason I stopped by.” She turned away. “Let’s go sit in the living room.”

  “I came by because I have some, well, news, I guess you could call it.”

  Truman walked behind her into the living room and couldn’t help noticing the impeccable tailoring of her skirt. She had great hips and a tight little behind, but both of those paled in comparison to her perfectly shaped legs. It was a shame he knew just how perfect the rest of that body was, he thought, now that she’d decided to deny the turn their relationship had taken.

  It didn’t surprise him, and he knew she was bluffing but it disappointed him just the same.

  “News?” he repeated.

  She sat, then he sat. He wondered what would have happened if she’d arrived five minutes earlier, when she would have run into an obviously wealthy matron and her uniformed chauffeur in his apartment. If she had discovered the woman was his mother would she still be so determined to keep things platonic? Or would he have suddenly looked less like a witness and more like a prospect?

  Marcy took a sip of her soda, then rested it on the arm of the chair. She looked at the can. “Yes. I got a visit tonight from Guido, do you remember him?”

  He frowned, then realized who she meant. “Arthur? The guy from the coffee shop?”

  She nodded and looked up at him, her eyes concerned. “He’s still calling himself Guido.”

  Tru sat forward. “What did he say?”

  “It was strange. He said he was just checking up on me, making sure I wasn’t getting into any trouble. I assume he meant messing with Planners again, but he made no outright statements or threats to that effect.”

  “Did he make threats to any effect?” Truman’s ire rose.

  Arthur Crumpton was a wimp of the first
order. The only people he could scare were the ones who didn’t know him at all and could be intimidated by his size. His gangster style of dress didn’t hurt any, either. Speak to him for ten minutes, however, or call his bluff, and it was immediately obvious he had nothing to back up his appearance.

  Marcy’s brows knit. “That’s hard to say. The whole visit seemed kind of like a threat to me. I mean, why would he come at all if not to scare me? He showed up at my door without checking in with the doorman, then bulldozed his way right into the apartment.”

  “He forced his way in?” Truman was so incensed it was all he could do not to jump to his feet and go have a word with “Guido” right now.

  “Not exactly. But I definitely had the feeling he would, if I’d tried to keep him out.”

  “What did he do once he was in? He didn’t touch you, did he?” Truman eyed her intently, looking for the slightest twitch, the tell that would give away any fudging of details. Women like Marcy didn’t like men thinking they’d found themselves in a situation they couldn’t handle.

  Not that she couldn’t handle Arthur. She just didn’t know it.

  “No, no. Nothing like that. He just…he came in and said he was checking up. Oh! Then he asked if I had a boyfriend.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said yes, of course.” She flashed a quick smile.

  Truman’s heart sank. “You do? I mean, you did? You told him that?”

  “What else was I going to say?” she asked. Truman’s heart rose. “I also said he was on his way over, after which Guido—uh, Arthur—said he had to go.”